


New Friends and Old Enemies

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Brotherhood, Dragon Riders, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: In 17th century France, young d’Artagnan finds himself going up against some of the King’s elite Musketeer Guard—and their dragons. An encounter that will profoundly change the course of his life.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 49
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My muse has been overtaken by a Musketeers dragon rider AU. I hope you guys enjoy it because I've already written a ton... I've made them into "episodes" which I'll be posting separately as their own fics. Each one is about 3-4 chapters, and as of right now I've got eight episodes finished and in the queue. I've kept a lot of things canon and changed some other things.
> 
> Some lines from episode 1x01; they're not mine. Thank you 29Pieces for beta reading!

The rain poured down in a deluge and thunder rumbled in the distance. D'Artagnan swiped his hair out of his eyes for the umpteenth time, though the buckets coming down on top of his head were just going to plaster his hair across his forehead again. At least his father had given up ribbing him over not having a hat. And it wasn't like the sopping, limp thing on _his_ head was doing him much good after a few hours in this. The weather didn't look likely to let up any time soon, either.

"Come on, you're tired, Father," d'Artagnan said as an inn came into view just up the road. "We should stop here."

"Paris is only a few hours away."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Paris will still be there in the morning."

And hopefully a little less wet.

"Look, I could ride all night. But if you're saying you need to rest…" Alexandre d'Artagnan shrugged with a chuckle and veered his horse off the road toward the inn.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes fondly and followed.

The ground was a mire of muck and mud and d'Artagnan's boots felt like they sank a couple of inches when he dismounted and landed in it with a splat. He took the reins of his father's horse and led the two animals to the stable. The interior was sparse with a few empty stalls lined with straw and hay. D'Artagnan led the horses to a larger stall and proceeded to remove their saddles and tack so they could get a rest and dry off.

A sharp report cracked the air, followed quickly by a second, which stopped d'Artagnan in his tracks. That wasn't thunder.

Dropping the saddle to the ground, he turned and bolted out of the stable. A figure wearing a hat and cloak with two pistols in hand came barreling out of the inn and fled around the other side of the building. D'Artagnan charged after him, nearly slipping in the mud as he gave chase.

He rounded the corner of the inn and almost skidded to a stop at the sight of a dragon waiting out in the field. The mysterious man already had too much of a head start and leaped into the dragon's saddle. With a screech, the beast gave a mighty flap of its blue wings and launched into the sky, the silver stripe across its back shining like a flash of lightning.

D'Artagnan let out a frustrated yell and kicked a patch of soggy grass as man and beast flew away, out of reach. He turned and slogged back to the front of the inn just as his father came out.

"I couldn't stop him," d'Artagnan said regretfully. Hopefully the highwayman hadn't gotten away with all their coin. It'd be awful if they had to turn around and go back to Gascony.

Alexandre d'Artagnan's face was slack and white as he stumbled, his sword hanging from his hand and the tip dragging through the mud.

D'Artagnan's heart seized. "Father?" He surged forward just as his father collapsed, catching him mid-fall. "Father!"

D'Artagnan dropped to his knees in the squelching mud, his father's limp body in his arms. Every inch of them was soaked, but there was a patch in Alexandre's chest that was growing darker.

"Father… No." D'Artagnan cast his gaze around desperately, but there was no one to come help.

"Athos," his father uttered, chest hitching.

D'Artagnan bowed his head over him. "Please…"

His father's eyes were wide and locked on his. "Athos…" he repeated.

Athos? What did that even mean? D'Artagnan tightened his grip, silently begging for him to stay. But in the next breath, Alexandre fell completely still and lax. The rain pounded down upon them without mercy and the puddle beneath his father turned reddish brown.

D'Artagnan clenched his fists in his father's coat, his gaze drawn to the sky though the dragon and its rider were long gone. He would find them. If it was the last thing he did, he would get vengeance for his father.

Taking his rage and willfully turning it to ice for now, d'Artagnan gripped his father's arm and heaved his body up over his shoulder, then hobbled toward the inn. Inside he found a man crouching over another body covered in bright red from a hole in the chest.

The man straightened abruptly. "Is he…?"

"Dead," d'Artagnan bit out, the words threatening to fracture that carefully constructed composure. He bent his knees and lowered his father to the floor as gently as he could. "What happened?" he demanded.

"It was a musketeer named Athos," the other man replied. "He robbed us."

A musketeer. And a name. Well, that gave d'Artagnan a place to go to find this man. Athos of the Musketeers. A dragon rider. That meant he was the elite of the elite in the King's Guard. So much for their honorable reputation.

His eyes settled on his father's gray face. He was all that d'Artagnan had had left in the world. His mother had passed many years ago and he had no siblings. Now…now he was utterly alone.

The innkeeper declared he was going to wait for the rain to stop before burying his other guest, but d'Artagnan didn't care about the rain. Its drumming deluge matched the angry beat of his heart. He went back out to the stable and found a shovel, then strode across the road to a patch of earth at the edge of the field. His father deserved to be buried at home, next to his wife on the family farm, not out in some random grave. But d'Artagnan could not take the time to return to Gascony. Revenge was all that mattered now.

He rammed the spade into the mud and dug out a chunk. Then another, and another. Water squished out of the muck and pooled in the hole but d'Artagnan kept at it. He let his fury fuel his muscles and the rain conceal the salty tears that streamed down his cheeks.

He was exhausted and hurting by the time the hole was dug but he did not stop. He returned to the inn to retrieve his father's body and carried him out to the freshly dug grave by himself. He laid his father to rest by himself and broke two branches to wind with twine in order to make a marker by himself. The rain only began to let up when he was done and standing over the muddy mound.

"I promise you, Father," he said aloud. "I will avenge you."

.o.0.o.

Treville stood at attention as King Louis ordered a pigeon released, raised his musket, and fired, the shot echoing across the gardens. Under the canopy, Queen Anne flinched.

"There's something about shooting that makes a man feel fully alive," Louis commented.

"Unlike the birds, I suppose," Anne replied drolly.

The King sighed in exasperation. "They're born to be shot. Like rabbits." He canted his head. "And poets." Raising the musket to his shoulder again he called, "Now!"

Another bird was given wing and another shot brought it down. To Treville's left, two of his musketeers' dragons were eyeing the fowl with interest. One slithered its tongue along the edges of its mouth. They were well trained though. And if they were patient, the servants whose job it was to go pick up the carcasses would likely toss the dead birds the dragons' way to make for easy disposal.

"Good shot, Your Majesty," Cardinal Richelieu said as he strode across the gardens toward them.

Louis beamed. "Good enough for the Musketeers, Treville?"

Treville had a lifetime of practice keeping reactions such as annoyance off his face. "My men are professional soldiers, Your Majesty."

Louis pursed his mouth into a pouting moue. "You should try flattery sometimes. It plays very well around here."

"I have always told Your Majesty the truth," Treville replied stoically. "And always will."

"That's why I like you, Treville," Louis said. "These people just pay me empty compliments. It amuses me to have an honest man at court."

And everything was for the King's amusement. Even his dragon riders standing guard were more for a show of might in Louis's eye. The King had no idea just what his prized soldiers were capable of. But he didn't need to know. He just needed to be protected.

Louis turned to Richelieu with an annoyed mien. "What can I do for you, Cardinal?"

"Reports are arriving with disturbing frequency, Your Majesty. A musketeer dragon rider on the rampage, robbing and murdering."

Treville bristled. Beside him, his dragon Kilgar narrowed his golden eyes. The umber-brown dragon stood at nine feet tall, one of the largest of the garrison and the oldest. He had been with Treville since before the Musketeers were established eight years ago, the two of them having guarded the previous King.

"There has been some mistake," Treville said. "This villain is not a musketeer."

"I, for one, don't believe a word of it," the Queen spoke up. "I never knew such a loyal and law-abiding body of men."

Indeed, not just anyone was accepted into the ranks of the Musketeers. Men had to prove their worth just to receive a commission, and then ascending the ranks to the level of dragon rider took commitment, integrity, and skill. The very idea that one of Treville's top soldiers could be responsible for these reported crimes was preposterous.

"But I strongly advise an inquiry," the Cardinal pressed.

"Is that really necessary?" Louis whined.

"I know you love Captain Treville…" Richelieu flicked a look at him. "But a great king must be seen to be fair. He cannot have favorites."

"Unless it's you, you mean?" Louis retorted.

Kilgar let out a soft snort that ruffled Treville's hair.

"It's Your Majesty's reputation that concerns me," the Cardinal persisted. "This man wears the King's uniform."

Louis sighed. "Very well. We will have an inquiry." He gave Treville a pointed look. "You will give it your full co-operation, Treville…"

The captain gave a stilted nod. The accusation rankled, but best to clear the matter up before real harm could be done to the Musketeers' reputation. And better he be involved in the investigation than leave it to the Cardinal, who had a not-so-secret dislike of the Musketeers. It wouldn't have surprised Treville if the pompous man had started these baseless "reports" himself.

Louis turned his attention back to his shooting. "Now."

Treville met Richelieu's eye, both of them taking the dismissal as permission to start immediately.

.o.0.o.

Porthos sat at one of the tables in the garrison yard, cleaning and oiling his pistol. On the ground at the end of the table, a russet dragon had his head resting in the dirt, one amber eye angled upward. He let out a concerted puff of hot air from his nostrils that wafted up into Porthos's face.

Porthos wrinkled his nose and shot the dragon a peeved look but otherwise tried to focus on his task. Another burst of stuffy breath sent the oil cloth fluttering off the edge of the table, and Porthos barely caught it in time before it landed in the dirt.

"Would you tell yer dragon ta knock it off?" he snapped at Aramis, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table munching on an apple.

Aramis glanced over, then down at his dragon. "He doesn't listen to me."

"Yer the only one he listens to."

Aramis snorted. "Only when he feels like it." He took a last big bite of his apple and then tossed the core at the dragon's head, bouncing it off his muzzle. "Rhaego, stop it."

The dragon gave itself a small shake and turned its head away from Porthos with a huff. On its right, Porthos's own dragon was lying out in the sun, absorbing the mid-morning rays. She was larger than Rhaego, who was five years old and very much still a youth though full grown at eight feet tall and fifteen long from nose to tail. Vrita was a plumper green female whose wider girth suited Porthos.

Rhaego rolled his head side to side in the dirt, settling on a position that looked like it'd give him a crick in the neck. Then he started snorting hot air from his nostrils again at Vrita's face, right up her own nose. The green dragon whipped her head up and smacked Rhaego's nose so hard that he squeaked and skittered back, bumping against the table, though thankfully not hard enough to knock it over. Vrita grumbled deep in her throat and turned her back on the russet scamp.

Rhaego looked over at Aramis, blinking as though still stunned, and then hurt.

Aramis shrugged. "You deserved that."

Smacking his jaw, the young dragon shuffled around as though to find a more comfortable position…one that was edging toward Vrita again. Honestly, that rascal didn't know when to call it quits. Porthos knew Vrita wouldn't actually hurt him; she had the patience of a saint. Most of the other dragons couldn't stand Rhaego and some of them showed their displeasure with teeth. Which was why the Musketeer garrison was as large as it was, to give their various members room to avoid confrontations.

Nestled on the edge of the city and against the western wall of the palace, the Musketeer garrison consisted of a wide, spacious yard surrounded by a tall perimeter wall. To the immediate right upon entering the main gates was the stable so the horses could be housed as far from the dragons as possible. Their den was located in the far back, a long structure with individual alcoves curved inward like caves. Not that the two species weren't trained to tolerate each other, but that didn't mean they had to bunk together.

Next to the stables was the main barracks, with the captain's office on the second floor overlooking the yard, and an infirmary and kitchen on the first level. The armory was in a second building across from the first that also contained their training equipment, and the area in front of it was often used for practice sparring.

Porthos looked up to see Athos and his dragon making their way across the yard. Rhaego immediately settled down, laying his head on the ground again and covering his face with his foreleg. Porthos smirked. The little bugger was scared of Athos's dragon, Savron. The nine-foot-tall beast with a length span of eighteen feet was one of the alpha males of the garrison and had a calm, austere demeanor much like his rider. The aegean blue silverback and musketeer lieutenant suited each other in their roles quite well.

"Have you seen Treville this morning?" Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. "He left early to go meet with the Cardinal again."

"Wonder what it's about," Aramis remarked. "He was with him all day yesterday too."

"I'm looking for Athos!" a loud voice intruded upon the garrison, drawing all their gazes toward the arch where a brash youth had just come storming through like a blustering wind.

Athos exchanged a look with the others before answering, "You've found him."

The young man's eyes flashed dangerously and he raised a pistol in response. "My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony." Suddenly he moved to set his pistol on a nearby barrel and drew his sword instead. "Prepare to fight. One of us dies here."

Porthos got to his feet at that.

"Now that's the way to make an entrance," Aramis remarked as he too stood.

Their dragons also rose, curious gazes drawn to the lad. Savron looked unimpressed.

Athos drew his blade and walked out into the middle of the yard, seeming unperturbed. "Can I ask why?" he asked with only mild curiosity.

"You murdered my father."

"You're mistaken," Athos replied. "I'm not the man you're looking for."

"Murderer!" this d'Artagnan boy raged and charged.

Athos brought his weapon up to block, steel colliding with a raucous clang. Their blades screeched as they struck again and again, d'Artagnan circling around to the other side and the two coming to a standoff.

"Do you deny you shot Alexandre d'Artagnan two days ago in cold blood?" the lad demanded.

"I usually remember the men I kill," Athos said. "That name means nothing to me."

"Then you're a liar as well!"

The boy surged forward again, swinging his blade. More strikes and parries rang through the air as the two fought in a flurried dance.

"Remarkable," Aramis commented. "He's keeping up with Athos."

Porthos scoffed. "Rubbish. He jus' doesn't want to hurt the lunatic."

Aramis chuckled.

Athos drove the boy back toward the armory and pushed him up against a post, bringing his blade to the lad's chest while whipping out his gauche and stabbing the point into the wood above his head.

"That's enough! That could have been your throat. Don't make me kill you over a mistake." Athos shoved away from him and started to walk away. "I didn't kill your father and I don't want to kill you."

The impertinent youth threw his sword on the ground and yanked the dagger out of the wood, then arched his arm back.

"Athos!" Porthos shouted in warning.

Athos turned just as the blade whizzed past him, the tip embedding itself in the wood of the post Aramis had moved to lean against. Rhaego's eyes narrowed and he bared his fangs at the boy.

"And that could have been your back," d'Artagnan seethed and picked up his sword again. "Now fight me or die on your knees! I don't care which."

Athos didn't move.

"No?" the boy said, then charged.

Aramis stepped in with his sword and struck the boy's blade down toward the ground. "He said, enough."

D'Artagnan's shoulders were heaving from exertion as he looked up. "Very well, I'll fight both of you."

He wrenched his blade up and slapped Aramis's away, but Aramis swung his up and around and slammed d'Artagnan's onto the top of the table. Athos whacked his down on top as well, and Porthos added his broader schiavona to the top of the pile.

"Three of us?" Porthos queried. "Now, for God's sake, put up yer sword."

D'Artagnan was breathing heavily but he lifted steely eyes to theirs. "You'll have to kill me for it." With a battle cry, he forced all their blades up to free his and swung his sword around. Athos parried but the kid merely swung the other direction to lock with Aramis's.

"Lively little bugger, aren't ya?" Porthos exclaimed as they spread out, each taking turns blocking a strike.

The dragons skittered out of the way, heads tilted with interest. Savron, however, seemed to have lost his patience along with Athos and let out a screeching roar that startled d'Artagnan into freezing where he stood. The dragon snapped its jaws around the boy's sword and yanked it from his grip, then head butted him, throwing d'Artagnan flat on his back. Savron finished by planting a taloned foot on his stomach. The boy thrashed trying to get free, and Porthos had to give him credit for not turning into a blithering idiot with a ticked off dragon on top of him.

"What's going on?" Captain Treville's voice demanded, and the three musketeers turned to see him striding into the garrison with a group of other musketeers.

Porthos opened his mouth to explain but caught sight of a contingent of red guards right behind them, and then he had a mind to ask the _captain_ what was going on instead.

Treville shot a sharp look at Savron. "Release him."

The silverback dragon lifted its foot, letting d'Artagnan scramble away and to his feet.

"We were just trying to clear up a misunderstanding," Athos said.

Treville's face was pinched. "Athos, I'm sorry. These men have come to arrest you. You're to appear before the King immediately, charged with robbery and murder."

Porthos's brows shot upward, and he and Aramis immediately stepped closer to their friend.

Treville's mouth ticked. "I promised them there'd be no trouble."

Porthos hesitated. He didn't want to disobey his captain, but this was absurd.

After a moment, Athos handed his sword to Treville. "I'm not the man you're looking for," he said over his shoulder to d'Artagnan as the red guards moved forward to take him by the arms.

"My father named you before he died. I saw that dragon fleeing the scene!" the boy snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Savron.

"It wasn't us," Athos maintained.

Several more red guards moved around him and toward the silverback dragon, chains, collar, and a muzzle in hand.

Porthos stiffened. "You can't be serious!"

Treville looked as though he'd swallowed something bitter. "The charges include Athos letting his dragon kill people. Savron is to be taken into custody as well."

The dragon shuffled back a step as the guards approached him with the chains, growling low in his throat.

"Athos," Treville called, and the guards paused at the gate.

Athos's expression pinched, but after a moment he nodded to his dragon. "Savron." The name was spoken softly but it was enough to get the silverback to begrudgingly lower its head in submission.

The other dragons in the yard, however, began to growl and huff. A screech went up from one watching in the back, drawing the attention of others in the garrison. Rhaego's belly began to glow faintly as he kindled his fire, and Aramis had to step directly in front of him to force him to quell it.

Porthos clenched his fists, nearly vibrating with outrage as the red guards were unnecessarily rough snapping the collar around Savron's neck, even though the dragon wasn't resisting. Then they slipped the restraining contraption over his muzzle. Porthos suddenly realized them marching in and seeing the silverback pinning a man to the ground probably hadn't helped matters.

Now chained, the guards dragged Savron toward the arch where he had to duck his head low to pass under. Porthos and Aramis moved forward to follow. Treville left orders for the dragons to stay behind, as Court was no place for them, and then the three of them stormed after the Red Guard and their friends.


	2. Chapter 2

D'Artagnan was left standing in the yard, having been completely forgotten. He'd failed in his mission to avenge his father, as Alexandre d'Artagnan's murderer still drew breath. Snatching up his sword, d'Artagnan slipped past the reddish-brown and green dragons that'd been left behind and hurried after the procession, intent on either seeing how things played out or searching for an opening to finish what he'd started.

No one paid him any mind as he slipped into the palace grounds, keeping close enough to the back of the group of guards that he looked as though he was with them. The great hall they entered was full of members of the Court in all their finery but also some commoners in the back. At the other end of the chamber were two thrones with whom d'Artagnan assumed were the King and Queen seated upon them. Athos was taken to stand at the end of the hall from them, two red guards flanking him.

A man in long clerical robes stepped forward. "This man," he began in a loud voice, jabbing an accusing finger as he strode toward Athos. "Stands accused of highway robbery…" He paused for effect and turned back to the throne. "Assault…and murder. While Captain Treville looks the other way, his men are allowed to go on a rampage."

"The charges are false, Your Majesty," the older man who'd come into the garrison with the guards immediately said.

"There are witnesses," the accuser rejoined. D'Artagnan heard someone whisper he was the Cardinal. "You!" He pointed to a man along the line of observers, and d'Artagnan recognized the innkeeper. "Tell the King what happened," the Cardinal instructed.

The man humbly stepped forward and bowed to the King. "I own an inn. The musketeer named Athos robbed me and murdered two of my guests, Michel Fournier, and a Gascon named Alexandre d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan's chest constricted at the mention of his father. He should be the one testifying to the murder, piling on the witness statements and accusations upon the musketeer's head. And yet he didn't leap forward to add his account. His idea of proper justice involved the two of them crossing blades, not standing before the throne and bandying words.

"I have never seen this man before in my life!" Athos declared.

"You." The Cardinal beckoned forth a young man, who bowed nervously before the King and Queen.

"I was driving my master and mistress through the countryside. We were attacked by a bandit. He said his name was Athos. He- he had his dragon rip their throats out."

D'Artagnan had a flash of those fangs when they'd been mere feet above his head.

"Is this your assailant?" The Cardinal pointed sharply at Athos.

The boy turned to look. His brow furrowed. "Yes, I believe so," he replied, though he hardly sounded sure. "He wore the same uniform."

"Oh, this is a mockery of justice!" the captain of the Musketeers exclaimed.

"And can you describe the dragon?" the Cardinal pressed on.

"It was a silverback, blue."

"There is not a word of truth in this!" Athos shouted adamantly. "These men are mistaken!"

"Musketeers are not above the law!" the Cardinal snapped back. "And such a vicious beast cannot be trusted." He then spun toward the King with a swish of his robes and softened his tone. "Remember, Sire, the King's judgement is infallible."

"Quite right," the King conceded, though he looked reluctant. "An example must be set." He raised his chin. "Take this Athos to the Chatelet. He will be executed at dawn, along with the dragon."

The King rose from his throne and everyone hurried to bow respectfully. D'Artagnan followed suit, though his gaze was fixed solely on the accused. He watched the red guards take hold of Athos's arms and lead him from the hall, the man's face frozen in shock. Justice would be served, but it didn't make d'Artagnan feel any better.

He numbly began to file out with the crowd, but before he reached the doors, a hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into an alcove. He instinctively reached for his sword, but another bruising grip stayed his hand, and he found himself cornered by Athos's two friends.

"You didn't know Athos when you stormed into the garrison," the one of slightly smaller stature said. "Did you even see the man who shot your father?"

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth. "No. But I saw his dragon. And I know enough about them to know that silverbacks are rare."

The two musketeers exchanged grim looks.

"I suppose it's possible there's another one flyin' around Paris," the larger man said.

"Obviously someone is trying to blacken Athos's name."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but let out a skeptical snort at that.

The musketeer narrowed his eyes on him. "Honestly, how stupid can a robber be to declare his name to his victims and then leave witnesses unharmed like the innkeeper and that coach boy?"

"Arrogance," he answered.

"Stupid," the larger musketeer growled.

The first nodded and released d'Artagnan. "We should go to one of the murder scenes, see if we can pick up a trail."

"I'm going with you," d'Artagnan found himself declaring.

The two musketeers exchanged a brow raise and just looked at him blankly.

"I came here looking for answers but now I just have more questions," he said honestly, surprised at his own revelation. That trial he had just witnessed did not sit well with him, despite the outcome being what he'd wanted—Athos's death. But if there was even a _small_ possibility… "And I cannot rest until I know the truth."

The two men shared another silent look before shrugging to each other.

"If you think yer up fer it."

D'Artagnan bristled with indignation. "When it comes to finding my father's murderer, why wouldn't I be?"

The other musketeer grinned. "He means that if you're going to ride with us, we take to the skies."

With that, the two musketeers strode away. D'Artagnan furrowed his brow, it taking a moment for him to realize what they meant, and then he found himself swallowing nervously before taking a breath and jogging after them anyway.

.o.0.o.

Milady de Winter stood in the darkened alcoves of the Cardinal's private prayer room, awaiting his arrival. She would have liked to see the trial, liked to have seen the look on Athos's face when he was sentenced to death. But her work was in the shadows and her greatest ally the ability to slip in and out of places unseen. She'd be able to watch the execution from a window high in the Chatelet and that would have to be enough.

The door grated open and then clanged shut.

"You chose well," the Cardinal commented as he strode to the altar and lifted a candle to light a few more. "Athos is held in the highest regard by his fellow musketeers. His disgrace and execution will strike a deadly blow to their morale. How ever did you find a silverback dragon? Those are quite rare."

"I have my ways," she replied coyly as she emerged from the darkness.

The harder part had been getting her hands on a Musketeer uniform, but she'd tracked down a widow who lived alone and pretended to be the daughter of another musketeer who had died, claiming her father had been close friends with the woman's departed husband. From there it had been easy to coax her into sharing her memories—and the pauldron packed away at the bottom of a chest. And then the woman had a nice sip of tea that quietly sent her on her way to join her husband while Milady took possession of the uniform to hand over to the mercenary she'd hired to masquerade as _her_ dear husband.

After six years, she would finally have her revenge.

"Hm," the Cardinal hummed. "Still, that made your task harder. So why Athos?"

"I have my reasons."

He paused to regard her coldly. "I don't like secrets."

"You asked me to help you discredit the Musketeers," she replied. "I have done so."

"And you've been well paid for it."

"There are others who will pay," she said with a casual shrug. "But my loyalty is to you."

The Cardinal was the one who found her slated for the executioner's block, who rescued her from that horrific fate. That and his money earned him her allegiance and services, and she had become his spy, his agent of death. How many men had she seduced only to murder them in their beds at the Cardinal's bidding? She had become the monster her husband had accused her of being after his brother had tried to come between them…after she'd killed Thomas to protect herself. To protect their marriage. She'd acted in self-defense and love, though Athos would hear none of it. He'd turned her over to the courts to be sentenced to death.

A part of her had died that day, her heart having turned to stone after the man she loved had forsaken her.

And soon his would stop beating.

Milady closed the distance between herself and the Cardinal, putting on the demure act. "Let that be enough."

He sneered at her, ever resistant to her charms. It didn't matter; she had no intention of bedding him.

"I have work to do," he said and turned away.

Milady smirked as he left. She had an execution to look forward to.

.o.0.o.

Aramis and Porthos hastened back to the garrison, their tag-along in tow. It was too soon to tell whether the brash youth would be a help or hindrance, and perhaps it was risky bringing him along when time was of the essence, but Aramis had to admire his gumption. Besides, with Athos's and Savron's lives at stake, they could use all the help they could get.

Rhaego and Vrita were still out in the yard, alert and waiting for them. Aramis and Porthos strode past them with a wordless gesture to follow as they headed for the dragon tack room in the back of the garrison next to the dens. D'Artagnan veered to the other side of the musketeers, casting a wary yet intrigued look at the two beasts.

"Have you spent any time around dragons?" Aramis asked.

"Um, no. A family in Gascony had one, but it was old and didn't do much."

They reached the tack room and the Gascon and the dragons waited outside while Aramis and Porthos retrieved their saddles.

"This is Vrita," Porthos introduced as he hefted the leather saddle over the green dragon's back. "Let her smell you."

D'Artagnan inched cautiously toward the female and held up a hand. She angled a considering look at him as Porthos ducked under her belly to cinch the saddle straps. But since the musketeers were obviously okay with the boy at the moment, she lowered her head in invitation for him to touch her nose.

D'Artagnan hesitated a beat before pressing his palm against her muzzle, then flexed his fingers to scratch it. Vrita's wings vibrated in pleasure.

Aramis finished saddling Rhaego. "You're a natural," he remarked.

D'Artagnan gave a tentative smile. "They don't seem all that different from horses."

Vrita abruptly pulled her head up and glowered at him indignantly.

The boy froze. "Um, sorry?"

Aramis grinned. "They're more like cats, actually."

"And that one?" d'Artagnan asked, turning to Aramis's dragon.

"That little bastard is Rhaego," Porthos answered. "Don't try an' pet him. He doesn't like strangers."

The russet dragon bared a toothy grin at that, which Aramis knew was supposed to look intimidating. But he also knew his dragon wouldn't cause significant harm to anyone without severe provocation; Rhaego had come a long way with Aramis as his rider. Before they'd been paired, the recalcitrant dragon had come dangerously close to being put down if he could not be tamed. But somehow he had taken to Aramis, and they had both saved each other.

D'Artagnan looked as though he wasn't sure whether Porthos was kidding or not, but opted not to approach the young male.

"Do you have a cloak?" Aramis asked. "It gets chilly up there."

"Back at the inn where I'm staying."

"I'll find a spare."

Aramis jogged toward the barracks to retrieve his and Porthos's cloaks, and picked up an extra for d'Artagnan to borrow.

"Where are you four going?" Treville's voice echoed sharply as Aramis was making his way back across the yard.

He pulled up short with a grimace but quickly schooled his expression as he turned to face the captain and his dragon standing at the corner of the building. "To find a way to clear Athos's name."

Treville's expression was grim as he raked his gaze past him, brows knitting slightly at d'Artagnan. But he asked no questions and merely nodded. "Good luck."

Aramis inclined his head and hurried back, tossing the heavy altitude cloaks to Porthos and the boy.

Porthos smacked an arm across d'Artagnan's chest. "You'll ride wit' me."

D'Artagnan nodded nervously as he eyed the green dragon. "Wait, no bridle?"

"A skilled dragon rider doesn't need one," Aramis replied, swinging up onto Rhaego's back. He grabbed the anchor line and clipped it to his belt, then gripped the two pommels on the rim of the saddle. "It's a partnership. A dragon must trust his rider's direction, and a rider must trust his dragon's decisions."

Porthos climbed up onto Vrita's back, then reached down to give d'Artagnan a hand up behind him. He clipped one anchor to his belt and clipped the second to the young Gascon without so much as a by-your-leave. "Hold on tight," he instructed.

The boy had only a split moment to snake an arm tightly around Porthos's waist as Vrita crouched low and then pushed off into the air.

Aramis clenched his thighs against Rhaego's flank and his dragon gave a massive thwack of his wings as he followed suit, launching them toward the sky.

.o.0.o.

Treville retreated to his office, not even wanting the company of Kilgar, his long-time friend and confidante in times of trouble. This was one of the darkest days in the regiment's history—and there had been some dark days. To have one of his best dragon riders accused of such heinous crimes and sentenced to death for it…it was unfathomable. Treville had no doubts that Athos and Savron were innocent, and the fact that justice had failed them made this even harder to bear.

The Cardinal had to be behind it, Treville was certain. This was not the first time the conniving man had attempted to disgrace the Musketeers. Treville was loathe for him to get away with it, but what could he do? There was no evidence, and the Cardinal was smart enough not to have directly involved himself in any schemes. Their only hope was for Aramis and Porthos to find something that would definitively clear Athos and Savron. But doing it before tomorrow…that was a tall order.

The door of his office banged open and a fiery young woman stormed in.

"Savron is to be executed in the morning?" she exclaimed without preamble. "How could you allow this?"

Treville stood up calmly. "Mademoiselle Bonacieux, this was not my decision."

"None of my father's dragons would ever kill innocent people!"

"I know that, but evidence was presented to the King and he passed his judgement."

"The King is wrong!"

Treville swept past her and quickly shut the door. "Take care how you speak, Constance."

She crossed her arms defiantly. "What, is he going to arrest and unjustly execute me too?"

Treville reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He understood why she was upset; the entire garrison was upset, but it was out of his hands.

"You have to do something," Constance pressed. "My father is already devastated at the news. If he has to commence with the execution tomorrow, it will kill him."

"You're not the only one facing loss here," Treville finally snapped. "Athos has been sentenced to death as well for robbery and murder."

Constance blinked in bewilderment. "Athos? That's ridiculous. Athos would never do those things."

Weary, Treville returned to his desk and sank into his chair. "Unfortunately, the witness statements accusing them were enough for the King and he has spoken. It's final."

She shook her head in denial. "You must speak with the King. He trusts you."

"That is not going to carry any weight in this situation," he said regretfully. Not when the Cardinal held equal sway with Louis. "Musketeers are not above the law."

"Nor protected by it," Constance retorted. She finally fell silent, her expression shifting from anger to distress. "There must be something," she pleaded.

"Aramis and Porthos have gone to search for the real culprit behind these crimes," Treville said. "All we can do is pray they find something before dawn tomorrow."

Because that would take a miracle indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

D'Artagnan found flying terrifying and exhilarating all in one breath. When the dragon had first launched them into the air, his heart had traded places with his stomach and he'd clung to Porthos like his life depended on it. Which it did. Miles above the ground where trees looked like bushes and d'Artagnan could see vast stretches of the French countryside, a fall certainly would be fatal, and he wasn't all that confident in the single rope line secured to his belt not snapping if he happened to fall off.

But he quickly acclimated to the various sensations: the rise and fall of Vrita's torso beneath him in response to the flap of her wings, the biting cold air buffeting his face, and the occasional dip when the dragon shifted into a glide through the air currents. Overall, the experience was mesmerizing and thrilling.

Flying also cut down the journey time significantly, and they arrived at the inn within half an hour instead of a few. The landing was a bit jarring as Vrita's bulky weight thumped onto the ground heavily. Aramis's more lithe dragon pulled up into a brief hover to ease its touch-down.

D'Artagnan fumbled to unhook himself and then slid out of the saddle, still slightly in a daze.

Aramis chuckled. "Enjoyed that, did you?"

D'Artagnan realized he had a goofy grin on his face, but somehow he couldn't figure out how to wipe it off. "I can see why you like it," he said.

But then his gaze drifted across the field and road beyond, now dusted with snow, to where a small cross stuck up out of a frozen mound, and he sobered. They were here for a purpose.

"What exactly are we looking for?" he asked.

"For starters, we'll see if the dragons can pick up this other one's scent," Porthos replied.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow, then turned in a half circle. "The dragon was over here," he said, leading the way across the open field to where he'd seen his father's murderer leap onto the beast's back to fly away. If d'Artagnan had a dragon, he could have given chase.

The three men and two dragons ambled across the field, snow crunching underfoot, until d'Artagnan stopped.

"It was about here," he said.

The dragons immediately pressed their snouts to the ground and began to sniff. But after several minutes of scuffing about, Porthos's dragon finally lifted her head and gave a negative shake. Aramis's kept going, head darting back and forth but seemingly not homing in on anything.

"It was raining," d'Artagnan put in, feeling foolish for not having mentioned it before. He doubted even dragons could pick up a trail that had been washed away.

Porthos huffed in frustration. "We could try another murder scene."

Aramis canted his head at something on the ground and crouched down, removing his glove to dab two fingers at some silvery goop in the frosted grass. He rubbed it between his fingers and lifted it to his nose to smell.

"Looks like oil paint," he said with a touch of incredulity. He shot a bewildered look up at Porthos. "Silverbacks are rare. Someone must have painted a dragon to look like Savron."

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth. Why would someone go to such trouble to frame another man? And did this mean the musketeers were right, Athos wasn't the one who'd killed his father?

"Rhaego," Aramis called and stood up.

The dragon swung his head back toward his rider and waited as Aramis approached, holding out his hand for the dragon to take a whiff. Rhaego's nostrils flared as he took in the scent and he began to sniff more frantically.

"Focus," Aramis coaxed. "Focus."

The dragon's frenzied state began to calm.

"You got it?"

Rhaego sniffed for another moment before pulling back and whipping his head around to gaze across the field. He took another deep breath, pupils dilating a fraction.

"He's got it," Aramis declared and moved to climb into the saddle.

"Got what?" d'Artagnan asked. "You're not saying he's going to track the _paint_? Even if the rain was washing it off the dragon, there'd only be a few drops spread over acres."

"Rhaego's got trackin' skills like nothin' else," Porthos said, moving to mount Vrita. "He jus' has trouble focusin' sometimes."

D'Artagnan hurried to climb into the saddle behind him and re-anchor the line. Aramis leaned over Rhaego's neck and d'Artagnan heard snippets of encouraging words before the dragon abruptly reared back and leaped into the air. D'Artagnan's stomach lurched as Vrita followed suit.

Aramis and Rhaego took the lead, occasionally swooping low to the earth, presumably after a near-impossible trail. Vrita stayed high and level and out of the way. Sometimes she would circle when Rhaego went to land to sniff at the ground again. D'Artagnan watched Aramis's small figure below attempt to keep the dragon focused when he seemed to pick up other distracting scents.

Despite the staggered progress, d'Artagnan could tell they were heading back toward Paris. But with Athos having been arrested and sentenced, the true culprit would certainly have to be laying low, lest he cast doubt on the musketeer's guilt.

Aramis's dragon suddenly veered sharply and plummeted toward the ground to land on a stretch of road. Aramis hopped off and crouched down to inspect something. Whether by some unseen signal or just to rest, Vrita landed as well.

"What is it?" Porthos called.

"Tracks," Aramis replied. "Dragon and carriage. This must be where that merchant and his wife were killed yesterday."

Rhaego was sniffing in circles intently, then snapped his head up, nose pointed northeast.

"He's got the dragon's scent," Aramis announced.

Porthos's mien hardened in anticipation. "We're gettin' closer."

"How could Aramis tell?" d'Artagnan asked as he climbed back into Vrita's saddle behind Porthos.

"You work with a dragon enough, you get ta know their mannerisms an' such," the large musketeer replied. "If you have a true partnership, then you don't even need words."

D'Artagnan tried to imagine what that was like, to have someone know you so well that they could simply tell what you were thinking without explaining it. The closest he had was his father—d'Artagnan could always tell when he was feeling mischievous, or annoyed. And his father always knew when something was bothering d'Artagnan even when he didn't want to talk about it. Really, his father had not only been his guide and mentor, but his friend. And the loss stabbed at his heart anew each time he remembered that presence in his life was now gone. D'Artagnan didn't know what he was going to do, and the one person he would have trusted to ask wasn't there anymore to offer his advice.

The dragons soared over the countryside toward the city, but Rhaego angled away before they reached it and then pulled up short to hover, his great wings flapping to keep him aloft. Aramis leaned over the dragon's neck, presumably to say something, and Rhaego gave a clipped nod. Aramis then signaled Porthos and pointed to a set of ruins just outside the city. D'Artagnan leaned out as much as he dared to get his own look, though he didn't see anything special about them. Porthos, however, nodded in acknowledgment, and the dragons swooped back down to land again.

"What?" d'Artagnan asked. "Did you see something in those ruins?"

"Campfire smoke," Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan quirked a brow; he hadn't seen anything from this distance.

"We'll have to approach on foot," Aramis went on. "Keep the element of surprise until we know exactly what we're dealing with."

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth. Wouldn't it be a surprise to swoop in on their dragons? Especially since the afternoon had long transitioned to evening and it was nearing sunset. But the musketeers were already heading off, their dragons trailing behind, so d'Artagnan had no choice but to follow.

By the time they reached the edge of a ravine that carved a trough along one side of the ruins, it was after dark and the temperature had dropped, leaving their breaths misting with each exhalation. The dragons hung back while the men crept across a stone bridge, keeping close to the crumbling wall for cover.

Now that it was dark, d'Artagnan did see the glow of a campfire, and as he approached the corner and peered around it, he spotted a hooded figure sitting before a fire pit and what looked like a goat roasting on a spit. Behind him, a blue dragon with messy silver smears down its back was secured with a chain-link bridle and two longs chains anchoring it to the ground. The beast growled and snapped its jaws at the air. The man picked up a chunk of raw meat from the ground and tossed it the dragon's way.

"Doesn't look like anyone else is here," Porthos whispered.

"That dragon has a lot of slack on its chain," Aramis whispered back. "We'll need a plan."

D'Artagnan had a plan—kill the man who murdered his father. He drew his sword and charged into the open courtyard.

The man leaped to his feet, reaching for his sword that lay a short distance away. D'Artagnan swung his blade, unleashing all the wrath, grief, and pain he'd been bottling up since the moment he'd buried his father. Steel clashed in a series of staccato, strident screeches.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos and Aramis rush toward the dragon, brandishing their blades as the beast roared, but d'Artagnan's focus was solely on his duel.

"What's your problem, boy?" his opponent snarled.

"You will pay for murdering my father!"

Their swords crossed again and again. In the background, the musketeers' dragons were climbing over the walls of the ruins as the blue dragon thrashed in its chains to break free. D'Artagnan heard Aramis shout Porthos's name in warning, and he chanced a look toward them. The blue dragon's pale belly was cracking with fulvous veins and it opened its maw wide. D'Artagnan belatedly realized there was no cover inside the ruins.

And then Porthos darted right up to the dragon's face, pulling a fistful of something from a pouch on his belt and throwing what looked like crystallized pebbles straight into the dragon's mouth. There was a series of pops and crackles and the glow immediately fizzled out. The dragon jerked back coughing and gagging.

D'Artagnan's concern and fascination meant he'd let his guard down. His opponent gave a charging cry and swung his sword. D'Artagnan barely ducked underneath the arcing blade and nearly lost his balance as the man continued the momentum up and over his head to come around again. D'Artagnan brought his blade up to catch it, the hilts locking together. He used the force to drive both blades point first toward the ground and twisted to wrench his opponent's out of his hand. The man tripped and fell backwards. D'Artagnan grabbed both swords and crossed them over his head before plunging them down toward the man's throat with an enraged bellow.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis shouted.

He stopped inches from criss-crossing the man's throat, his whole body vibrating with the urge to finish the job.

"We need him alive!"

D'Artagnan loomed over his father's killer, justice a mere breadth's away. All he had to do was close the distance. The man was staring up at him in bewilderment. D'Artagnan brought the blades closer and then stopped again just shy of nicking his throat.

"Death in combat is too honorable for you," he seethed. "I'd rather see you hang."

He pulled the blades back and pushed himself up, taking a step back. The relinquishing of his vengeance and the rush of the fight left him feeling heady.

Aramis hurried over and grabbed the man by his cloak and hauled him up. "Why were you killing in the name of Athos of the Musketeers?" he demanded.

The man lifted his chin. "I was hired to."

"By who?"

"Didn't get a name."

Aramis narrowed his eyes, but then shoved the man around and pushed him back toward the campsite where he grabbed some rope to restrain him with. The blue dragon was crouched low to the ground and grumbling as Vrita and Rhaego stood over it menacingly.

"Found the paint," Porthos said, picking through some supplies and lifting up a tin can.

"That should be enough evidence to clear Athos and Savron," Aramis said. "But we're going to need help taking that dragon in."

Porthos nodded. "You go. Vrita and I will wait here and watch 'im."

"D'Artagnan will stay too, as I'm going to be taking this fellow back with me." Aramis gave their prisoner a sharp shake, then whistled and Rhaego hopped off the wall to come over. Aramis forced the bound man onto the saddle and lashed him to it. "I'm going to warn you, Rhaego usually doesn't tolerate anyone but me on his back. You try anything he doesn't like and I'll push you off, and you can dangle from his belly for the rest of the flight."

The russet dragon craned his neck around and bared his fangs at the man, who wisely remained silent.

D'Artagnan watched Aramis climb into the saddle behind him and then they took off into the night sky. He glanced back at the subdued dragon and started to fidget. "Um, you sure you got it under control?"

Porthos smirked. "You scared?"

"Cautiously respectful." He threw a look at the green dragon at that and thought he saw a pleased moue cross her face, though he could have been imagining it. "What was that stuff you threw in the dragon's mouth anyway?"

"Refroidi. It's a special alchemy compound that quenches a dragon's fire."

"Handy." For anyone brave enough to go running straight at a fiery geyser.

Porthos grinned. "You need ta know all kinds of tricks when workin' wit' dragons."

D'Artagnan could imagine.

And he could also kind of imagine himself working in that environment…


	4. Chapter 4

Athos sat on the cold hard floor of his cell, nestled in the corner between the wall and iron bars. The sun had faded some time ago and the only light was the orange flicker of a single torch ensconced in the wall down the corridor. In some other cell, someone moaned in misery. A heavy door occasionally creaked and then slammed shut.

Athos couldn't sleep. This was to be his last night on earth and he would find no rest during it. He'd been numb with shock when he'd first been thrown into the Chatelet, stunned at the witness statements against him and the King's subsequent declaration of his guilt. He was _innocent_. Six years he had served France and the King in full faith and fidelity, and yet none of that had meant anything in that travesty of a trial.

Anger had kindled at the injustice of it all, not only for himself but for Savron as well, who was slated to be slaughtered needlessly. The dragon had trusted Athos's lead when his rider commanded him to submit to the arrest. Athos had trusted that justice would clear them of these false charges. Now they were both to die because justice had failed them.

Of course, that anger on his own behalf quickly tempered under a wave of self-loathing and guilt. In the dead of night with no wine to dull his thoughts, Athos's mind inevitably turned to his wife, whom he had loved and then handed over to the magistrate to be executed for murdering his brother. Athos had let Anne into his life—their lives—and Thomas had paid the price for her lies and concealed past. Just like Savron was going to pay the price tomorrow for Athos's misjudgment.

He wondered whether he and Anne would see each other again in the next life…which Athos suspected would be hell. Anne for her crimes and him for his. But why wasn't it enough for Athos to pay for his own sins? Why must those he cared about be punished as well?

He pulled the locket he wore out from under his shirt and opened the clasp, the tiny image of the flower within both a balm and burn to his tormented soul. He had not said goodbye to his wife when she'd been taken away, standing stoically in the face of her pleading eyes. He would not get to say goodbye tomorrow. Nor would he want to; he would not want his friends to watch his dishonorable demise. Better they remember him as he was, and not as this criminal he'd been wrongly accused of being.

The night waxed and waned, both crawling by and yet passing too quickly as the first gray hues of twilight heralded the arrival of dawn. Athos waited with a knot coiling around his stomach until the guards came. Chains were fastened to his wrists and then he was escorted from his cell and out to the pit for the firing squad.

Each step felt heavier and heavier as he slowly descended the stairs, the line of guards priming their muskets to his left. His escorts directed him to the wall on the other side and his chains were attached to others in the stone. Not that he would ever dishonor himself by a pathetic attempt to flee.

The morning was gray and somber, a fitting pall for a day of death. Somewhere a bird cawed.

"Take aim!"

Athos drew in a deep breath, trying to keep the trembling in his limbs dormant.

The muskets were raised, hammers cocked.

He breathed out and closed his eyes. Time seemed to slow, the pounding beat of his heart a thud, thud, thud. He waited for the thunderous crack of musket fire. A gate creaked. The anticipation made every single nerve ending rattle.

"Come on, shoot, damn you!" he exploded.

"Hold your fire!" another voice immediately barked.

Athos snapped his gaze up to the platform where Aramis was marching down the steps, Porthos behind him.

"If I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die," the marksman commented, holding up a piece of parchment. "Your release, signed by the King."

Athos blinked in stupefaction, not quite sure whether to believe it. Relief made his limbs shake and he sagged back against the wall.

"Get these chains off him," Aramis ordered.

One of the guards immediately moved forward to unlock the tethers.

"Savron?" Athos asked tensely.

"Our next stop," Porthos said.

Athos barely waited for his wrist irons to be removed before he was hastening toward the steps to climb out of the death pit. He paused as he passed the young Gascon who had come blustering into the garrison the day before, intent on killing him. The boy gave him a hesitant look, devoid of his previous hostility. Athos had no idea why he was there, but he got the inkling that the lad had somehow been involved in obtaining his release. Athos canted his head in gratitude, and the boy gave a small smile in return.

But not everything had been remedied yet and Athos quickened his pace to get out of the Chatelet and stop Savron's own execution. Aramis's and Porthos's dragons were waiting just outside the gate where the street was wide enough for them to land. Athos was slightly taken aback when the young Gascon immediately moved to ride with Porthos, so Athos turned toward Rhaego. Given the urgency of the situation, the russet dragon didn't give him any trouble about riding him.

As they launched into the air, Athos prayed justice wouldn't be too late one more time.

.o.0.o.

The royal dragon den was in an uproar, a frenzied protest having ignited when Savron was dragged out of his cage in chains by a bunch of red guards that morning. Constance had been furious at their treatment of the dragon when they'd first locked him up—iron shackles on each leg and chains binding his wings to his back. They'd insisted it was necessary to keep the vicious beast in check, and it was the Cardinal's orders. Neither Constance nor her father had been able to do anything against that.

Just like they were helpless to stop this morning's proceedings.

Four red guards had hold of two separate chains attached to the iron collar and chained muzzle on Savron's neck and face and were roughly dragging him out into the center of the yard. The poor dragon could barely shuffle along fast enough with the irons around his legs.

In the pens in the back of the compound, dragons screeched and rattled the gates. Savron reared back suddenly, briefly lifting the guards off their feet.

"Hold it!" the captain shouted.

Two more men drew their swords and darted in, aiming their blades to jab the dragon in his eyes.

"Stop it!" Constance screamed, running forward. She shoved one of the armed guards away. Another reached to seize her and she kicked at his shin. "Just stop it!"

She spun back to Savron and raised her hands toward the agitated dragon. The silverback's nostrils flared, his pupils dilated, but he calmed a fraction at her presence. Savron lowered his head to Constance's open palm.

"I'm so sorry," she said brokenly.

He let out a low keen.

Constance looped her arms around his head to cradle it. "Shh. It'll be quick. You won't feel it." Her voice cracked and tears threatened to spill over.

The guards hesitantly began to move back, and Constance gestured for Savron to lie down. Her father came out then, a pistol dangling in one hand. His face was drawn and drained of color. He had been rearing dragons for all his life, and it always hurt to lose one. But to be forced to put down Savron, who hadn't done anything wrong, was soul crushing.

Savron gazed up at them through glassy orbs but didn't fight.

Jean Bonacieux took out an obsidian musket ball from his pocket and loaded the pistol. The acimite was one of the few alloys strong enough to pierce a dragon's hide. Constance put a hand on his arm in shared anguish. He squeezed back, then cocked his head for her to look away as he raised the barrel and aimed it at Savron's head between those dolent eyes.

The dragons in the background were in such an outrage that Constance barely heard the ear-splitting screech from above. But in the next moment, two dragons came crashing down in the yard with a tremendous thud, sending the red guards staggering back several feet.

"Stop!" someone shouted.

Jean wrenched his arm up before he'd squeezed the trigger.

"This dragon has been cleared of all charges!" Aramis declared.

The captain of the Red Guard strode forward. "What are you talking about?"

Aramis held up a piece of parchment with what looked like the King's seal. "See for yourself."

Constance felt her knees go weak and she exchanged an elated look with her father, who let the pistol drop to the ground.

"The key to these chains, if you please," Aramis said with murderous warning.

The captain of the Red Guard looked over the pardon with a sour expression, then begrudgingly handed over the key. Aramis tossed it to Athos—also miraculously released, Constance noticed—and the man quickly moved to free his dragon. Constance stepped in to help pull the chains off once they were unlocked.

Savron gave himself a full body shake when the last of the irons were removed. Then he lowered his head to Athos, who rested his own forehead against the dragon's in wordless reunion.

Constance turned to the red guards that were lingering. "Go on, get out of here! There'll be no butchering for you today."

The men exchanged disgruntled looks but began to leave.

"That was too close," Porthos commented.

Constance turned toward him. "I don't know how you managed it, but thank you."

"It was a team effort," he replied, casting a look at a young man Constance hadn't noticed before. There was a story there, but one she'd have to get later. For now, she was going to bask in the sheer relief of everything working out in the end.

.o.0.o.

Though the King signed Athos's pardon with the new information brought to his attention, there was still a lengthy report to go over and d'Artagnan found himself required to give his account of what happened, first to Captain Treville of the Musketeers, then at the palace to the King, Queen, and Cardinal directly. Aramis and Porthos were there, of course, the three of them taking turns explaining how they'd tracked down the true criminal and his dragon and apprehended him.

King Louis applauded them for their good work and dedication, looking relieved to have his personal regiment untarnished after all.

The Cardinal, on the other hand, said little and looked positively sour about this turn of events. D'Artagnan wasn't sure what to make of it.

When it was finally over and they were dismissed, it was getting late in the evening and d'Artagnan suddenly found himself feeling unmoored. His need to avenge his father had driven him the past few days, but now that it was over, he no longer knew what to do with himself. The thought of returning home filled him with a profound sense of emptiness.

"I need a drink," Athos muttered.

"I think we all could use one," Porthos said. He turned to d'Artagnan. "Care to join us?"

D'Artagnan hesitated, but then figured why not? It had been a long day.

He followed the three men through the streets of Paris to a tavern where they grabbed a table and Athos and Aramis went to the counter to order a drink. D'Artagnan quirked a brow when Athos took his bottle and cup to a separate table. Aramis brought three cups and a bottle to where d'Artagnan and Porthos were sitting, then proceeded to pour them each a portion.

"What are you going to do now?" Aramis asked.

"I don't know," d'Artagnan admitted. "There's not really anything for me back in Gascony."

"No other family?"

He shook his head. "It's just me now."

Aramis lifted his cup. "To your father, then. May his soul rest in peace."

D'Artagnan's chest constricted with emotion as Porthos raised his cup as well to toast Alexandre d'Artagnan, a man these two had never even met. He knocked back a long swig. "So…" he started. "What does it take to become a musketeer?"

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a brow raise, then grins.

"Well," Aramis began. "It takes skill with a sword."

"Think we can tick that one off," Porthos said with a wink.

"And a musket."

"Yet to be seen."

"Courage."

"Honor."

Aramis leaned back in his seat with a thoughtful moue. "You might just have what it takes though."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile at the idea. If he was going to start from scratch to make a new life, it might as well be for something that was worth it.

Porthos smirked. "Wait till we tell Athos."

Aramis grinned and clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "You come to Paris to kill him and end up saving his life." He glanced over at the other musketeer. "After a few drinks, I'm sure he'll appreciate the irony."

D'Artagnan followed his gaze. "What's wrong with him anyway?" He hoped it wasn't his presence at the tavern with them after what happened. That could make any efforts to become a musketeer problematic.

"Oh, woman trouble," Porthos replied.

"There was someone special once," Aramis added. "She died. That's all he ever said."

D'Artagnan took another sip of his wine. He could understand a loss like that.

"I'd better stay behind," Porthos said. "He'll need someone to carry him home."

"Do you need somewhere to stay?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan.

"Um, well, I paid for a room at an inn. But it's not exactly…sanitary." He'd had to save his money when he arrived in Paris, having sold his father's horse to refill his coin purse and needing to make it last.

"I think we can come up with something better," Aramis said with a sly grin.

D'Artagnan didn't know whether to be leery or not.

They finished their drinks, and then Aramis stood to leave and d'Artagnan followed suit. Porthos stayed behind like he said he was going to.

"Athos," Aramis said in passing on their way out. The man gave a nod of acknowledgement as he poured himself yet another cup.

D'Artagnan followed Aramis through the streets and out past the city, back toward the dragon compound.

"Um…"

"Monsieur Bonacieux has an extra room," Aramis said as though guessing d'Artagnan's train of thought. "And I'm sure he'll give you a discount on rent if you help out around the place." He tossed a knowing look over his shoulder. "Would give you some good exposure to working with dragons."

D'Artagnan…was honestly taken aback. It was one thing to let him entertain the idea of trying to become a musketeer, but taking steps to help him achieve it? That must mean they actually thought he could do it.

"Thanks."

Aramis merely grinned as they entered the grounds. The place was similar to the Musketeer garrison, with a long building on one end with alcoves for dragons to sleep in, though these had gates on them. There was a very large paddock next to it, and then another round building with a huge set of doors wide and tall enough for a dragon to fit through. Two more outhouses were situated next to it, and finally a small house on the right end of the compound. Lights were still lit inside.

Aramis walked up to the door and knocked. A moment later, it opened, revealing the red-haired woman d'Artagnan had seen earlier that morning.

"Aramis," she said in surprise. "What are you doing here this late? Is there a problem at the garrison?"

He took off his hat and pressed it to his chest. "No, everything's fine. Apologies for disturbing you, but I was hoping to speak with your father about something. This is d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan, this is Constance Bonacieux."

"Hello," he greeted.

She cast a wary look at him before stepping back to invite them in. The man who'd almost executed Savron came out from the back hall.

"Aramis, to what do we owe this visit?" he asked.

"My friend here has just arrived in Paris and needs a place to stay." Aramis repeated the introductions. "He's interested in becoming a musketeer and I thought since the den wasn't far from the garrison, you might have a room available to rent."

Bonacieux furrowed his brow in consideration for a long moment. "Well, yes, we do have an empty room. I suppose there'd be nothing wrong with that. You were with the musketeers earlier, weren't you?"

"D'Artagnan was instrumental in helping us clear Athos and Savron," Aramis said.

That seemed to win points with the older man, whose expression smoothed and he gave an affirmative nod. "Then it would be my pleasure to have you stay with us."

"Thank you, monsieur," d'Artagnan said humbly. "I have some money and will have income from my family farm back in Gascony, but I'd also be happy to help out around here as payment as well."

Bonacieux nodded. "I'm sure we can work something out. Constance, would you get the back room ready?"

"Of course," she replied and excused herself.

Aramis put his hat back on. "I shall leave you to it, then."

"Aramis," d'Artagnan called as the musketeer headed for the door. "Thank you."

The man grinned and tipped his hat before stepping back out into the night.

.o.0.o.

The Chatelet was dark and ominous, torchlight undulating with the flickering shadows that writhed like sentient entities in the dead of night. Milady slipped down the various passages, using those shadows to conceal her presence. She arrived at a wooden door and pulled the key from her clutch. Inserting it into the lock, she turned it just enough to quietly make the click and open the door.

Guimart looked up from where he sat on the dank stone floor, a thin shaft of moonlight through the barred window the only source of illumination. He rose to his feet, chains clinking. "I was waiting to see if you would come," he said.

"And here I am."

He smirked. "Which is why I haven't named you or your patron yet as the ones who hired me to blacken that musketeer's name." He lifted his shackled arms in expectation. "My freedom."

Milady pursed her mouth in a simpering moue and stalked closer. "My patron thanks you for your discretion. And grants your freedom…" She pulled a small knife from under her sleeve and plunged it into Guimart's throat. "From this life."

His mouth blew wide as gurgles warbled in his throat. She yanked the blade out and stepped away quickly to avoid any blood spatter. Guimart dropped to his knees, clutching at his neck, and then fell onto his side. Milady stood there watching the blood pool over the stone, imagining it was Athos that lay dying at her feet.

She had been denied her revenge. After so much careful planning and effort, he had escaped his fate. Much as she had barely escaped the one he'd sentenced her to.

The Cardinal, of course, was not happy. Milady would not give up though.

She waited for Guimart's twitches to stop before bending down and wiping the blade clean on his clothes. Then she locked the cell door behind her and slipped back into the shadows.

She had more plans to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME:
> 
> A tournament between the Musketeers and Red Guard is all fun and games until acts of sabotage endanger musketeer lives.


End file.
